


No Time

by Lady In A Tux (CollateralDamage666)



Series: Why Sherlock has Ruined my Life [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Complete, Gen, Major character death - Freeform, Post Reichenbach, References to Suicide, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-14
Updated: 2012-10-16
Packaged: 2017-11-16 06:32:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/536528
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CollateralDamage666/pseuds/Lady%20In%20A%20Tux
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been three years since Sherlock died.  Three long years without him and John's finally decided it's time for him to go as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basically going to start a collection/series of drabbles for my angst feels. I don't know why I do this to myself.

John liked the taste of metal.

He wasn’t sure why, but he was just so used to it in his mouth, that he had come to like it lingering on his tongue.  When his lips were cracked, he would run his tongue over the cuts, worming into the slits for the taste he knew was lingering there.  When he got in a fight, he would lick at his wounds, running his tongue over the cuts or wiping it over his lips to catch the drops of red that dripped down from his nose.  He would catch them on his tongue and pull them in, rolling the taste around in his mouth.

He liked the taste of actual metal, too, when it pressed down in his mouth, intruding so harshly, yet feeling like it belonged there, his tongue able to press against the metal, feeling around it.  So his gun felt so at home in his mouth, the barrel pressed against the roof, his mouth open like a door while the picket fence swung open to allow it entrance and the tongue invited it in like an old friend, even making it tea.  And so the gun would come right in, settle neatly into his mouth, cool and waiting.  His finger would sometimes twitch over the trigger, but he never actually pulled it, just thought about what would happen if he did.

Would anyone even notice or care?  He never saw Greg anymore after going out to drink with him a few times after the incident.  Harry was still drinking herself into a drunken stupor.  And Mycroft… he came around now and again to see how John was doing, but he mostly kept his distance, choosing to watch through others and cameras.  John had a feeling that Mycroft found the few visits tedious and unnecessary, figured he had other places to be, more important places than the flat where his brother used to live.  No, he decided, no one would really notice if he died.  They might care for a while, a month, maybe, at the most, but they would move on, just as they had for Sherlock.

One year.

Two years.

Three years.

John’s patience was wearing thin.  He had asked for a miracle from Sherlock and none had been given.  He was growing weary.  Every time he put that gun in his mouth, it seemed more at home, like it always belong there and every time his finger would pause over the trigger, wondering.  _Now?  Should I pull the trigger now?_   But he never did.  He just had to wait for the right moment to do it.  It had to be the perfect time when he knew there was no going back, that no miracle would happen.  When he was completely lost.  He wasn’t there yet, but he was close.  Oh so close he could feel the gun powder on his tongue every time he held the barrel in his tongue.

It was Sherlock’s birthday.  He crouched down in front of the man’s grave, running his hand over the black stone, tracing the gold lettering carved into the face.  He knew Mycroft was watching him.  The black car waiting outside the cemetery was obvious enough.  Mycroft no longer tried to sneak about, dragging John about to nearly abandoned buildings on the outskirts of the city just so he could speak to him in private.  Of course it didn’t work.  Sherlock always knew when Mycroft had talked to John regardless of how he acted or what he did when he returned.  He could come back in a regular cab and Sherlock could practically sense Mycroft all over him.  That was just Sherlock.

He felt that familiar, comforting metal tucked in the back of his trousers and he reached for it now, his movements slow but deliberate.  He shuffled backwards, moving down from his crouch so he kneeled before the gravestone, his knees pressed into the damp grass.  The sky above was overcast, as always, and threatened to start pouring again any minute.  He didn’t want to be caught in the rain, so he figured he’d have to be done with this before the clouds opened again.  He removed the gun and brought it in front of him, smoothing his hand lovingly over the metal, feeling its weight in his hands.  He cradled it to his chest as though it was a child and closed his eyes.

A car door slammed and his eyes snapped back open.  Mycroft was coming, he heard him shout his name across the graves and lawn.  He raised the gun, placing a kiss on the metal before sliding it home.  Mycroft was closer now, but John was long gone, lost in the sensation of the gun in his mouth and his tongue pressing against it so intimately.  His finger hovered over the trigger and he opened his eyes one last time to glance at the words in front of him.  Sherlock Holmes.

“John, wait!”

No.

No time to wait.

No time to hesitate.

No time to wonder.

No time to be weak.

There was no time.

“Wait!”

He closed his eyes and took his last breath.

“John, don’t!  He’s still-“

John pulled the trigger.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock was in Venice when he got the call.

He though that it was quite a nice city, but nowhere near as pleasant as London, where his streets lay, waiting for him to return.  John was in London, after all.  Not Paris, not Singapore, not Madrid, not Santiago, not Budapest, and definitely not Beijing.  He had been to all those places in the last three years, chopping off strand by strand the web Moriarty had spun over the world.  He had even stayed a few months in the United States, trying to stay as far away from the locals as he possibly could.  Said he could feel his IQ dropping just by setting foot on American soil.

He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket as he cleaned off his gun with care.  Whoever it was, they were calling him.  They should know better than that.  He always preferred to text.  It was probably Mycroft, deciding to bug him with mundane details once again.  He let it go to voicemail.  There was no other vibration to tell him there was a voicemail left.  Good enough for him.  He cleaned the red splatter on his hands and swiped the fabric over the gun once more, making sure all fingerprints and other evidence were removed from the metal before throwing it into the canal at his feet.  Also at his feet was the body of a man in a pool of blood.

Usually Sherlock was able to have one of Mycroft’s team do the dirty work, keep his hands clean, much like Moriarty, he thought with disdain.  But there were times where there were no other options, tailing them, for example.  He had made the mistake of glancing over for once second too long and the man had immediately differentiated from his usual course, moving quickly down a side street.  Of course Sherlock had had to follow.  There was no time to lose him.  To do so would mean losing time, spending more out here and away from his home.  The man had ambushed him, but Sherlock supposed it couldn’t be considered an ambush when you were expecting it, gun already drawn and silencer attached into place.  A close-up shot into the chest and the man was taken care of, his blood misting the air, but not landing on his clothes.

Singing filled the air and Sherlock looked up, recognizing the song.  It was a code.  His gondola was coming.  It slowly came into view, the gondolier still singing his song as he neared.  He came up right alongside Sherlock, only then ceasing his singing, keeping the boat steady and Sherlock swiftly rolled the dead man over and into the waiting boat, making it rock on the water.  Sherlock leaned down, grabbing onto a heavy cloth in the boat and covering the body, rearranging the articles in the boat so it looked normal.  The gondolier pushed off again, starting a different tune, one that signaled that the mission had been completed.  Sherlock watched the boat disappear down the canal before he finally fished out his phone.

As he had thought, it was from Mycroft.  As he held it, it vibrated again, this time showing he had a text waiting.  He sniffed, so Mycroft had learned something from his mistake of calling him.  He pockets the phone again just as it vibrates once more.  He huffs, pulling it back out to stare at the screen.  A text from Mycroft.  It was obviously important that he would bother calling Sherlock first, then leave a text as a final attempt to contact him.  He flicked the screen, opening up the message and staring at the words in front of him.

**_Call me right now.  –MH_ **

**_What’s so important that you can’t tell me in a text?  –SH_ **

His phone vibrates again.  Mycroft is calling him.  He frowns down at his screen.  His brother is being a little too persistent for his liking.  For a second, he almost turns off his phone, but something, like a stone in his gut, tells him to answer the call.  This is something important, something he needs to know about and Sherlock has a feeling it didn’t involve Moriarty or the web he had left behind.  He waited for the last second, his fingers numb, before he finally pressed the answer button, putting the phone up to his ear.

“What is it, Mycroft?  I was busy-“

Mycroft interrupts, “Listen, this is important.”

“It better be,” Sherlock sniffed, trying to remain logical, ahead, and completely in control, “If it’s not I’m just going to hang up on you.  You really should learn to just text me when-“

“It’s about John.”

Now he has Sherlock’s undivided attention.  The rest of the world has disappeared and now there is only his brother’s voice in his ear.  His voice is shaky when he speaks again.

“What about him, Mycroft?”

“I’m truly sorry, Sherlock, but-“

“Just tell me!  What has happened to him?”  His voice is rising now, almost cracking as he tries to keep down the fear climbing up his throat.

“He shot himself in the head.”

And then there was nothing.  Sherlock stood, but didn’t feel anything.  He couldn’t see, hear, notice anything around him.  His brother’s voice was gone and there was just Sherlock.  And John.

_“_ _You machine.  Sod this.  Sod this.  You stay here if you want, on your own.”_

_“Alone is what I have.  Alone protects me._ _”_

_“No.  Friends protect people.”_

_“Nobody could be that clever.”_

_“You could.”_

_"But please, there's just one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me, don't be... dead.  Would you do that just for me?  Just stop it.  Stop_ this _...”_

Oh, John.  He had died to protect John, but by doing so he had killed John.  He crumpled to the cobbled sidewalk, Mycroft’s voice finally breaking through, reaching him.

“Sherlock?  Sherlock, are you still there?”

“Yes, yes…” he shut his eyes, “Where’d he do it?”

“In front of your grave,” came the reply.  I tried to stop him, to tell him, but he ignored me.  I was so close.”

“Well then maybe you should have tried harder!”  He didn’t try to calm himself now, his voice echoing against the walls.  Mycroft stayed quiet on the other side, which only fueled Sherlock’s rage even further, “Did you even try to keep him safe, Mycroft?  Or did you just give up after a while?”

No response.  Sherlock gripped his hair tightly, feeling tears prick at his eyes.  With a flash of anger he threw his phone, watching it smash against the far wall and fall into the canal in pieces.  Oh, how he wished he hadn’t thrown his gun into the waters now.  What he would give for a bullet.


End file.
